


These Kisses

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-25
Updated: 2005-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five couples, five kisses, and a lot of background noise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in December of 2005.

They hadn't really had time for this before, had they?

When the house is coming down around you, the last thing you think about is taking your time.  You have to hurry, or that sheet of corrugated metal banging about in the garden might just fly through a window and decapitate you, and then you'll have no lips left to speak of, and not having lips makes kissing rather impossible. _Worse_ than.

At that moment, Newt had considered himself pretty fortunate, if not the luckiest man alive.  He suspects, however, that surviving might or might not have been a mercy, because right now he's sitting on a quaint little sofa that Anathema had ordered after all the smoke cleared (quite literally).  Anathema is in his lap, cradling a glass of champagne between them.  In Newt's opinion, it's a big improvement over the gin, but the room is swimming, and Anathema's eyes look much greener than they should.

"Hanging in there?" she asks, raising the glass to her lips, which are now a soft, unpainted pink.  Newt wonders why she bothered with lipstick when they were still perfect strangers, and now never bothers at all.  Not that he minds, though, as the lipstick had a funny taste, and the falling plaster alone would have been bad enough.

"Sure," Newt says, watching the flash of her throat as she swallows.

When Anathema is finished, she offers him the glass, but he takes it away and carefully sets it on the floor.  Her cheeks are pink, which is both unnerving and thrilling, and he sees only one sensible course of action.

Before he can take it, Anathema takes his hand.

"It's midnight," she says a heartbeat before the Device family heirloom chimes.

"I guess so," Newt agrees, and leans forward.

The champagne is bitter, but beneath it is nothing but sweetness.

*        *        *

"Pippin _Galadriel_ Moonchild!"

Pepper is almost breathless, but she runs until her mother's shouting is out of earshot.  Up the lane, she can see three tiny lights—waiting for her, exactly where Adam said they would be.  She doesn't slow down until her sides begin to hurt.

"She's not going to make it," Brian says loudly.

When she gets there, he's going to get it.

"Yes," Adam says, "she will.  She's got ten seconds, even, and Pep can _run_."

"I'm getting out of the way."  Wensleydale's light flickers off to the side of the lane.

Pepper can't stop in time, which is all right, because Brian is the one directly in her path, and it's satisfying to hear the crunch of gravel as she knocks him down.  Serves him right.  He struggles, but she climbs off of him before it even becomes necessary.

"You ought to try out for the 'limpics, Pep," Adam says.  "Why've you got a dress on?"

"Mum's throwing a party. And Gran's got all her wrinkled old friends over."

"My parents had a party," Wensleydale says.  "With mistletoe, and kissing."

Brian wrinkles his nose and asks, "What's all the fuss about mistletoe, anyhow?"

"Tradition," Adam explains.  "You've got to kiss somebody, or else it's bad luck."

"The mistletoe?"

"No," Adam sighs.  "It's bad luck not to kiss somebody."

"I don't want to kiss somebody," Brian says.  "No offense, Pep."

"I'm not _somebody_ ," Pepper says, proud of how sharp her voice is.

"We're missing it!" Wensleydale cries, frantically tapping his watch as he dashes back into the lane.  He runs into Pepper, and what happens next happens very fast.

"Sorry," Pepper mumbles.  Her face is two inches from Adam's, and she feels frozen.

Adam's hands are on her elbows, steadying her.  "'S no trouble at all," he says.

"I guess we're all going to have bad luck," Brian says glumly.

"Maybe _you_ are," Pepper says, and kisses Adam on the cheek.

Turning, she runs again, and this time, the ground seems to spin beneath her feet.

*        *        *

New Year's in Hell is much like New Year's anywhere else, except hotter, with worse party hats, more noisemakers, and absolutely abominable catering.

Ligur is enjoying a glass of lukewarm champagne, and he doesn't realize how fortunate he is to be hearing the din all around him, because most demons don't think in terms of "fortunate."  They think in terms of "miserable," and sometimes "cursed" just to break up the monotony.  Like the rest of the set, Ligur's glass is cracked, and every few seconds a cacophony of hissing champagne droplets adds to the din.

"Watch where you're goin' with that," Hastur says.  "You haven't hit my coat all night."

"Can't help it," Ligur says vaguely, watching the hordes of other demons and damned souls mill about.  There was music playing somewhere, and probably dancing, but Ligur didn't like dancing.  He never got anybody's toes, and that discouraged him.

"If you want to ruin something, you've got to get close," Hastur says, taking a couple of steps toward him.  "See?"  He raised his glass. Something wet struck Ligur's nose.

"Right," Ligur replies, too distracted to lick away the champagne.  Hastur's got a different coat on tonight, and he has no idea why he would like to call it "fetching."

Hastur is looking at him with a sort of dazed expression, which has been happening a lot lately.  As for the definition of "lately," that could mean anything from a day to a century, and lately, Time seems a bit off, more fuzzy than usual.  Sometimes, Ligur thinks there's a whole chunk of it missing, and when he sleeps, there's the memory of pain worse than any that he's ever imagined or endured, and he's done a lot of both.

Somebody's champagne glass comes down on top of his head, and it's _cold_.

It isn't till later—much later, or so it would seem—that he opens his eyes again, and Hastur is still looking at him, only from much closer on, and there isn't half as much noise as before.  He's also lying down, and his head is in Hastur's lap.

Ligur sits up, cursing, because that's par for the course in a situation like this no matter _where_ you are. "Feeling better, are we?" Hastur sneers.

"No," Ligur snarls. He wouldn't know _bette_ if it walked in wearing a tasteful hat.

"That's a shame," Hastur says.  "They're sayin' it's midnight.  All them pathetic souls rememberin' how it was Up There."  He's got that manic look again, like in a silent film Ligur saw once—like that damned, dashing actor right before he kissed the broad.

Ligur has never kissed anybody before, but he figures it's never too late to start.

*        *        *

Madame Tracy adjusts her shawl and straightens her shoulders.  She isn't getting any younger, but her reflection has never displeased her.  The hat is a nice touch.

"Are ye finished wi' the toilet yet, wumman?" Shadwell yells, pacing back and forth in the hall.  "We haen't got all bloody night, but once a year an' all that," he adds.

"Nearly, love!" she calls, and picks up a bottle of perfume.  It's old, but it'll do.

Shadwell is muttering under his breath about the wiles of the De'el.

Madame Tracy unscrews the cap and dabs a bit of the stuff on each wrist.  It smells like lilacs or lily of the valley.  She can't remember which, and the label has long since faded and peeled away.  The bottle leaves a faintly sticky residue on her palms.

"I'm finished, Mister S," she says, rising and opening the door.

Shadwell is backed up against the wall, looking as if he's taken a fright.

"What're ye all done up for?" he asks haltingly.

"Dancing, of course," Madame Tracy says with a smile.

"There ain't no places aboot for _that_ ," Shadwell says, finally stepping away from the wall.  "And wi' this leg an' yer ankle as 'tis, we oughtn't—"

"Oughtn't what, Mister S?" Madame Tracy asks, smiling even wider.  She has him against the wall again, because it's as good a place as any for a failed Peeping Tom.

Shadwell just makes a _humph_ sound and stares resolutely at the ceiling.

The whiskers aren't all bad, Madame Tracy thinks, once you get used to them.

*        *        *

It's been long enough that Crowley has the urge to breathe purely for aesthetic value, but Aziraphale is having none of it.  As the minutes pass, the taste of fine, chilled champagne gives way to the taste of the angel, which is, Crowley must admit, _finer_.

"All right, I—um, I _think_ —" he manages between kisses "—it's over now."

Aziraphale blinks at him, hair ruffled and cheeks pink.

"Really?" he asks, disappointed.

"Yes," Crowley says matter-of-factly, smoothing his jacket before he checks his watch.  "It's been approximately five minutes."

"But people will be up till all hours," Aziraphale says hopefully.  There's a party going on downstairs, and Crowley has a mind to cra—er, _investigate_ it.  "Besides, I don't see how all _that_ —" Aziraphale indicates the floor with a sniff "—could be much fun."

Crowley rolls his eyes and straightens the holly on Aziraphale's lapel.

"I suppose not," he says, which is not what he meant to say at all, but Aziraphale has gotten better at not blinking these days, and it's difficult to say no to somebody who's as good at not blinking as you are, especially when they have attractive eyes.

"Mm," Aziraphale says happily, taking this as an indication that the kissing should resume.  He tastes more of himself by the minute, which is inconvenient, because it’s more tempting than the urge _to_ tempt.  Heaven would have a field day with the paperwork, Crowley supposed, if they ever bothered to _care_.

He has more important things to worry about, like figuring out how on earth this particular pair of Aziraphale's trousers unfasten, and whether he should just forget it and skip right to being naked, which is admittedly not as romantic.

Romance has never been high on Crowley's list of priorities, but it's never too late to put it there, especially when you have all eternity to enjoy it.


End file.
